


shlocky bathtub

by Possette



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Biting, Blood Loss, Bottom Napoleon, Fluff, Help, How Do I Tag, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Licking, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Pampering, Pining, Stabbing, Top Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28876035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Possette/pseuds/Possette
Summary: He felt quite light. As if he werefloating.-"For fuck's sake- just clean the goddamn wound you hypocri-jesus fuck!"-“This is nice.”“You sound like you're enjoying yourself.”“Unless I sound like I'm being strangled, then yes, I am enjoying myself whilst you are pampering this poor puppy that got injured from a brawl.”-His beautifuldorogoy. His, and only his.-OrA oneshot where Napoleon gets himself stabbed, where Napoleon gets his sweet spots abused by Illya, where each men are pining for each other, and where Illya cooks him breakfast after fucking him.(This isn't a death fic, because no. I can't.)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	shlocky bathtub

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beautiful born creatures of bitches, this is my first ever work on ao3 so please be gentle _wink wonk_ ;)

Yellow light painted the dim room as Illya opened the mini fridge to take out an ice pack from the freezer, slightly scowling at the numbness that the cold pack of cubes was giving him. He snatched a small bath towel from the hanging rack outside the balcony of their hotel room and skillfully wraps the cold pack as if it was a gift.

Napoleon could hear small Russian curses about 'stupid Americans' from the tub in the bathroom. Normally, he would've chuckled and thrown a joke to counter the silly insult, but in his current state, he probably couldn't even understand the rest of the Russian phrases that Illya was saying.

He felt quite light. As if he were _floating_.

His left arm and head were dangling off the side of the tub and blood was streaming steadily down his chin and onto the chest of his pleated suit, painting its pristine white condition a beautiful hue of dark red. There was an even bigger pool of blood on the abdomen part of his shirt. Some specks of blood had dried and turned brown on the collar of his undershirt whilst the shallow cuts on his cheekbone had accumulated a certain amount of clotted blood enough to be used as a design on a beaded bracelet.

The room was dark, very dark, and it was of no help to Napoleon's flickering vision. It was all so suddenly silent, unlike how the commotion in the bar sounded a few minutes earlier-

-

His hands scrambled across the bar counter he was being bent over on as the attacker from behind him started pressing the small pocket knife to his nape. Fingertips grazed a small shot glass and Napoleon instinctively crushed the item in his calloused hands to smack the now crumbled shards into the attacker's open mouth from heavy panting.

The Spanish man choked and spat the shards out, thus letting his prey go. The American took advantage and kneed him in the groin before grabbing the back of his head to slam it into the marble countertop. The body went limp and Napoleon took a step back, not even given a few seconds to take a breath when another pair of aggressive hands dug into his abdomen and dragged him down onto the floor, knocking the barely-existent air out of his lungs.

Wheezing helplessly, he tried to push himself up and roll over only to be met with the seat of a barstool to the face. Everything went black for a second before he regained his consciousness and hooked his legs around the right knee of the new attacker. Napoleon immediately twisted his body as he wound his arms around the other person's waist to perhaps at least dislocate something of the opposer's bones.

A strong strangled cry echoed through the air and the Spanish thug attempted to slam himself into a wall to shake Napoleon off. The CIA agent let go as his head started spinning. Nevertheless, he threw a hard punch at the attacker's gash in his shoulder and another pained cry rang out. Taking a butter knife off a shattered table, he perfectly slit a beautiful rough red line across the man's neck. He watched in exhausted satisfaction when the man fell dead onto the bloodied and scratched floor.

Napoleon himself fell to the floor as well once he felt a blunt pain in the side of his torso. He glanced down to the pain. A butter knife was planted in his body, around eight to twelve centimeters deep into his flesh. _Fuck_.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck. Waverly was going to put him on leave for a week if he found out about this_.

"Having trouble, Solo?" A cocky voice rang in his ears. He looked up to see a man dressed in a bathrobe and khaki pants. Gunshots continuously shot in the background, the clicking of magazines sounding too loud. Alvarez moved his right hand to flick at a glass shard stuck in Napoleon's cheek. 

"Tsk, looks like you won't be able to make it even if I bring you to my house. Such a pity to see you suffer." The Spanish mafia leader leaned back as he raised his pistol to rest it against the sweating temple of Napoleon. The gun's safety switch clicks.

A single gunshot fired. But it wasn't the gun that was held to his forehead. The hand that was holding the pistol fell out of his peripheral vision, and he craned his neck to look at the shooter. Illya.

He was here. The bastard was ten minutes late. "You never arrive at a scene without style." Illya mocked the phrase that Napoleon had said during the last mission in Egypt when he was twenty-five minutes absent at a shooting spree.

He wanted to laugh, but the aching in his stomach threatened to make him puke if he even dared let out a chuckle. "You stupid cowboy, starting the shooting even though his partner hasn't given the go signal yet."

"No, you- you're late."

"Whatever you say, cowboy."

" _Cowboy-_ "

-

"Don't sleep on me just yet, Solo." 

A firm voice made the beat up man snap his eyes open. He was still in the tub. He was still covered in blood. He still felt like he's been stepped on a hundred times over. Like shit.

"Fuck me. _Fuck-_ " 

He let out a disgruntled whisper as he struggled to adjust into a more comfortable position in the vast tub.

"You look like shit." 

Illya stated coolly whilst setting down a towel slightly damp with melted ice water, a different towel hung up on the bathroom rack. Napoleon let out a light scoff at the statement.

"You have eyes, of course you can clearly see that I am in a shit state right now." He winced when Illya tried to unbuckle his belt, the leather material rubbing against his probably infected stab wound on his stomach.

"It looks bad."

"For fuck's sake- just clean the goddamn wound you hypocri- _jesus fuck!_ "

The burning effect of the disinfectant that Illya had drizzled over the gaping wound sent Napoleon into hysterics of pain that was out of this world. His fingers clenched mercilessly around the Russian's bicep, nails digging into the shoulder of his jacket and knuckles turning ghastly white. The sting subsided and Napoleon went limp as he breathed for his poor life.

"Did that hurt?"

Napoleon just chuckled weakly. His consciousness was threatening to slip away from the grips of his brain. He wouldn't allow himself to faint so easily, he was a spy who literally just saved the world from being nuked to bits.

"Not at all, Peril. Please proceed-"

He held back a pained whine as Illya continued to pour disinfectant on the rest of his wounds and scratches. The process lasted for about thirty minutes, due to the amount of continuous blood flowing from his stomach wound and from his broken nose.

At this point, the American didn't bother arguing with Illya when the Russian made subtle gestures towards his shirt that was most likely soaking in more than a gallon of blood. He hummed in acknowledgement and Illya didn't waste a second on cutting the piece of fabric across the stomach and chest. Sure the suit was expensive, elegance and poise, but Napoleon was high on blood loss. He could whine over the trimmed suit later.

Illya was surprisingly gentle, as if he were a nanny. The menacing look that usually filled his eyes was nowhere to be seen. At least to Napoleon. He was probably just seeing things since he had already lost the amount of blood enough to immerse a full-sized bath towel. He just sat there in the tub, drenched in his own blood mixing with the cold tap water. His Russian colleague continued to tend to the wounds that were managable, with such limited aid supplies, he wouldn't be able to fully accomodate the gaping tear on his abdomen. But that was better than just sitting and letting the lesion rot in cold air.

Napoleon let his head stay atop of the tub side as he fought the will to fall into slumber. His right arm was clenching loosely on the side of the ceramic material. He had gotten a bit used to the stinging pain, and occasionally let out grunts.

As Illya let his hands gently scrub at the dried red residue on Napoleon's toned skin, his certain movements slightly faltered when he picked up the sound of the American's breath hitching whilst his fingernails raked over a certain spot of his belly. In Illya's conclusion, it appeared that his partner's belly button was sensitive. He wasn't quite sure just yet, he had yet to confirm his suspicions.

Napoleon let out a huff of annoyance when he felt that ticklish sensation return once again as Illya's fluttering touches made the muscles in his stomach clench involuntary. He let his over-thinking self push certain thoughts out of mind, and he decided to close his eyes and focus on the pain that was solely eating his body away. The numb tip of his fingers tingled slightly, suddenly all so aware of the amount of skin he was showing off. Napoleon usually wouldn't be so insecure of being shirtless, he just didn't know why he was clenching his jaw so tightly. 

He was grinding his teeth so hard, he didn't even hear Illya calling out to him; voice all lulling and velvet. Slowly opening his eyes, he is greeted with the sight of a stoic Illya in front of him, the Russian crouching on his knees in order to level himself with Napoleon's lying position. The gentle moonshine swept across the KGB Agent's face. It illuminated his sharp features, sharp jawline, sleek eyes, poised cheeckbones, blue irises glowing ever so slightly, and his dusty blond hair sppearing ashy in the night air.

The baby blue tiles of the bathroom harmonized completely with Peril's clothes; a dirty white turtleneck sweater rolled at the sleeves to expose his muscular forearms, navy blue slacks hoisted up to his narrow yet intimidating waist by a Gucci belt (Gaby had decided having one designer item wouldn't hurt since he was an agent who needed style, unlike Napoleon who most likely had a collection of designer things) and old men shoes that he had been wearing since they first met at the square. It's a wonder how the footwear was still functionable and stylish despite all the rough horseriding it's been through.

And he musn't forget the expensive socks that he's gotten for Illya. The Russian despised the clothing article for a bit, since the price was more than he has ever received through cash, but Napoleon noticed that he had started wearing them every chance he had. 

The American was staring passively at his caretaker, and Illya was glad that Napoleon was doing so. If not, he would've noticed how hard he was eyeing his abdomen and vulnerable face and advantageous position. It was as if he could just shoot his head right there and then. But this defenseless man laying motionless in the cheap ceramic tub was his partner in work, he couldn't just kill him and get away with it. He wouldn't be able to do it anyway, judging by the fact that they've been working together for a full year now, all trust layed upon each other as if they wore each other's shoes.

He didn't want to kill this Napoleon Solo. He was just too- vulnerable. And he didn't want to advance on him in his wretched state. In fact, he didn't want anyone else seeing Napoleon in this situation of his. He was laying there, all spreaded across, completely handing himself over to Illya with such great trust that he has _never_ received before. 

Take note, the exaggeration of the word never, don't just ignore that. He certainly means it.

Napoleon started mumbling and Illya immediately moved his eyes away from the American's exposed belly that was still covered in watered blood.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'm freezing, do you wish to kill me by shooting a bullet through my head or by letting me freeze to death in this shlocky bathtub?"

Illya just snorted in disguised amusement before letting his strong arm wrap around his partner's slim figure, hooking under his armpit and around his chest. Napoleon helped the other lift him by pushing his wet palms against the slippery tiled wall and grunted when a sharp affliction traveled from his wound and to his chest, where it tightened his heart and gave his lungs a quick but strong jerk. A jerk strong enough to throw his leveled breathing into unequal and staggered breaths. He then decided that using Illya's shoulders as leverage was a better idea, leaving his stomach of any tension or weight from his arms' movements.

The pair slowly limped towards the bedroom with the king-sized bed, Illya making a quick retort when Napoleon attempted to lead the way towards the bedroom with a single bed.

"You're taking the king bed until extraction, you're the one with a damaged organ."

, the Russian had chided earlier. The cowboy was gracefully sat on the wooden chair in the corner of the room, a fluffy dry towel immediately being wound around his chilly bare shoulders that were starting to turn a light hue of pink. Napoleon absent-mindedly stared at the wall window beside him whilst listening to Illya rummage about in his suitcase for his sleepwear. A soft whistle brought his head towards the other man, eyes darting back and forth between the two silk pyjama shirts that hung from the taller man's hands.

One was a plain black silk shirt, with a minimalist line designed at the sleeve hem and collar, the other was a peach silk shirt, and it was of thinner fabric which would easily show off his muscular build. Eyes lingering on the peach shirt, Illya didn't take any further answer and quickly folded the black one back into Napoleon's suitcase. He pulled out the matching pyjama pants and briskly walked over to the injured male as he tried effortly not to stare at the male's absent (and somewhat pouty) expression.

He moved behind him and took the towel off the male's shoulders with butterfly touches, the smallest unintentional shudder not going unnoticed by the blond. He nestled Napoleon's bushy moist hair with the towel and started rubbing it againt his scalp in a massaging manner. And without a doubt, he could feel the American's chest purring. He could feel the smallest vibrations travelling from his chest and towards his fingertips on his scalp.

Even though there was a towel separating his fingertips and Napoleon's scalp, he could imagine the lustrous texture of the sitting man's locks. They looked bushy and curly, and they always shone so nicely under either sunlight, moonlight, artificial light, or whatever source of light. And indeed was a person to feel blessed if they ever caressed the silk-like material in their palms.

When Napoleon's hair was deemed dry enough, Illya hung the towel on the edge of the round table beside the chair and drew in a deep breath, letting out a shuddering one when he plunged his fingers into the mess of black locks. He must have imagined it, but he heard the American's jaw dropping. He started to comb his long, slender fingers through the hairstrands and listened amusedly to the chuffed tapping sounds Napoleon was making by drumming his fingers on the chair's armrest.

Hands slowly travelled down, communication occuring wordlessly like they were talking through telepathy.

_"This is nice."_

_"You sound like you're enjoying yourself."_

_"Unless I sound like I'm being strangled, then yes, I am enjoying myself whilst you are pampering this poor puppy that got injured from a brawl."_

Napoleon could hear the Russian's small smile, and couldn't help from smile mindlessly at the thought of Illya grinning whilst no one's watching. Just the two of them in a hotel suite, having the peaceful evening all to themselves, two nights away from the planned extraction.

"I've never seen this side of you before, Peril. All so mummy-like and nice. You have the gentlest butterfly fingers I've ever been touched by, maybe even gentler than my own mother's caresses. Why don't you show me this side of you very often? I would very much like it if you continued to pamper me like this, all calm and subtle. "

"And I would very much like it if you were to shush yourself and let me do my job, Solo. As your partner in work, I like to keep things coordinated and professional, unlike you who just randomly points a gun at a bartender after seeing glint of a MW11 in their pants."

Napoleon just lazily scoffs at the brief statement the other made. He raised his legs to rest then on the ottoman in front of him, swallowing down a groan when the shifting struck pain in his lesion.

"I'm being sincere, Kuryakin. And this is what I get in return? Such a disappointment, I was hoping to at least get an indirect compliment or the sort. And that bartender had put magnesium phosphide in my vodka, so you have no other excuse to insult me for making the first advancement."

The combing motions slowed down.

"A fumigant?"

"Yes, used in rat poison. A poor choice to put in a drink to be honest, it wouldn't kill me in anyway, would just contaminate me and give me bad stomach pain."

Illya hummed in acknowledgement as he continued to play around with his hair. 

"But the THRUSH woman I was talking to was beautiful, was a natural red head. She was careless enough to give way to her identity, though I wouldn't mind scoring a night for some intel in return. And about my suit! You owe me for cutting the poor thing in ha- _ah_."

Illya's hands stuttered and his brain short-circuited as he tried to comprehend on what the hell he just heard. Napoleon on the other hand, was blushing madly while he tried covering his face with his arms, resulting himself in wincing in pain when he tried to twist his forehands around his head. Illya had touched that spot behind his ear, right where the edge of his hair roots were. And it had felt really nice.

The Russian regained his senses and smiled inwardly with evilness dripping off his aura. He circled his way to Napoleon's front and slithered his hands through the bundle of arms to reach behind his ears. Strong hands caught his own, preventing their trek to the ears he attempted to snatch. Illya quirked an eyebrow.

"D- Don't touch there."

Illya hummed at the jitter of the first word in Solo's sentence.

"And why not?"

Damnit, this bastard really wanted him to admit it.

"Because I said so, now back off."

Kuryakin let out a small laugh which forthright snatched the embarrassed man's attention. Deep ocean blue eyes met steely blue ones, two colors contrasting together like the millions of hues in the Pacific ocean mashing together consonantly, beauty clashing against pure blood-thirst. In Napoleon's orbs, there was a powerful void that could grapple anything within its sight, black sucking in anything it could ever want, anyone it could ever want. Blanketed and nestled beneath sheen layers of blues. Such radiance. Such grace. Such Napoleon.

Illya in turn, was stunning in the most beastly way with those Sol-ashed hairstrands, like golden hay blessed by the gods above that was only to be fed to the horse that never existed. His facial features were more than enough to be able to encapture both women and men, to be able to command whoever his lips wished to order around. Oh that beautiful jawline so sharp and wicked that it could be able to slice through the thickest of thick. Nothing was impossible for Illya to do, everything was just like chess pieces for him; he controlled everything.

Everything but Napoleon. Napoleon was too strong-willed that he wanted to beat Illya in any form he could possibly do, from competing on who was the funniest, to who could eat the most of Gaby's burnt sugar cookies. It was all ridiculous in honesty, but seeing Napoleon so riled up over such small things made something flutter cheerily in his chest. The Russian would always rub at the middle of his chest to will the feeling down.

He was terrified at first. He didn't want to lose anyone else, so he didn't want to love anyone else. Especially the cocky bastard Napoleon. But even so, he did end up pining for the American a few months after their partnership in UNCLE. It was brainless of him, really. But who could resist the Napoleon Solo? The Napoleon Solo who could bring any man or woman into his bed with just the fewest of his charming words? The Napoleon Solo who could land on both feet with such equilibrium like a cat would? What about the Napoleon Solo who was entirely menacing to approach but could also be a kitten who wanted nothing but mere attention and friends?

Exactly. No one. Not even Waverly himself could. _Hell_ , even THRUSH's agents have accidentally slipped numerous times due to Napoleon's flattering and unintentionally intimacing words. 

Napoleon was simply one of those beautiful Gods cursed with mortality and sent down to Earth for being too beautiful, too beautiful for the rest of the Gods that they had to get rid of him out of envy and unwanted lust. Yes, lust. Lust so great that they had to put him down with these _protivnyy_ beings on Earth.

-

"Il- ya, stop! Urgh-"

Napoleon weakly fought against the Russian who was a head taller than he, attempts futile when his scarred wrists were pinned gently but firmly above his head, knuckles dangling off the head of the chair he sat trapped in.

"No, put your knee away. Kuryakin, I said put away-!"

A muffled groan erupted in Napoleon's mouth and the pleasing sound bounced from the roof of his mouth back down into his throat, choking in the process. Illya slowly pressed his knee into the American's groin. He smirked. Napoleon didn't seem to like the expression he made.

"I've only known you for a year and a half, Solo. But,"

The blond paused to lean down and inhale the faint smell of lavender lingering on the noirette's ice-cold skin. It was musky with a hint of coconut and strawberry, the combination seeming like cake fresh out from a cooler.

"-why is it that I, your partner in work, know where all your weak spots are?"

Napoleon tensed up, the exact reaction Illya had wanted. It made him look like a child that's been caught eating sugar late at night in the pantry. It was adorable in some way. Seeing his pupils lessen, heart rate picking up, hairs on his neck tingling. This was what Illya used to fantasize himself to sleep, the thought of a certain American crying, letting out guttural moans as his sweet and weak spots were being abused, bruised, marked.

He remembers every single fantasizing session he's ever had; exactly three hundred and eighty-two times. Exactly three hundred _and_ eighty-two times.

"Stop spouting nonsense and get off of me. I'm injured and you take advantage of my weak body? I would've blown your head to bits by now."

Solo glares at the Russian, not seeming too hostile anymore. He was wearing the silk pyjamas Illya had given to him, and his hair was more fluffier than usual, looking way too inviting for his fingers to comb through. Instead of obliging to his partner's demand, he dives in and plants his nose into the messy bed of black lucious locks. It smelled like coconuts. Funny, thought he'd bathed his hair with strawberry 3-1 shampoo. But nevermind that, he wanted Napoleon to be writhing underneathe his inconsiderate slaughtering of skin and flesh.

Illya latched his hungry mouth onto the skin that connected the shoulder and neck and bit dowm with enough force to leave a bite mark that could last a week. He bit even harder with a bit more lathering of tongue and was pleased when he heard the American crying out in pure surprise, agony, and sudden pleasure.

"That was sweet spot number one,"

He shifts around and presses harder into Napoleon, drawing in the ragged gasps and moans he forced out of the man. He tightens his left grip on Solo's wrists while caging the man with his right arm, looming over him. The bright moonshine did not help as it just made Illya's silhouette even more monstrous and petrifying.

Illya noses his way down his partner's neck. Past the crook, past the Adam's apple, and he stops at the dip of his collarbone where he laps at, saliva coating Napoleon's newly bathed skin. He reeked of arousal now, the fruity scent wafted away. Just as the trapped man was getting accustomed to the licks and lathers, he definitely did not expect Illya to once again sink his sharp canines into the dip of his collarbon. And god it felt too much that he couldn't help but roll his eyes back into his skull as he let his eyes flutter closed.

"and that was sweet spot number two."

The Russian smiled wickedly, corners of his lips dripping with mischeif and cheekiness.

"Just- asfghdkl, how many sweet spots do you know."

Napoleon grunts and his chest heaves heavily as he tried to catch his breath that was running a hundred miles ahead of him.

"Oh. Well, I know your nape's soft and sensitive as a baby's, sucking at the skin connecting your fingers would definitely make you come within a minute, biting your _bedra_ would overstimulate you, licking your earlobes would drive you _bezumneye_ than a _burunduk_ and you most likely have another sweet spot on your lower ba-"

"Okay shut up, I don't want to hear anymore of this."

Illya just stared at Napoleon before scoffing. Then he went for his mouth, eagerly devouring the sweet cherry he knew was his. All velvet, wet and hot, like eating velvet cake. They were lost. Too lost in their own world. In Illya's world of lunching on Napoleon and in Napoleon's world of embarrassment and shyness.

"Where did the Napoleon who brought women to his bed every week go?"

The blond snickers at the American's furstrated whine and tried to buck up to get more friction, only to be pinned down by Illya's thigh, eyes boring into his closed ones.

"Hips _down, sobachonka_."

Napoleon awoke to sunlight glaring straight into his face, forcing him to get up and wince at the pain that shot through his abdomen. He checks his wounds, all bandaged up with clean bandages. He pushes himself off the bedside and limps towards the kitchen where he could smell the warm aroma of coffee and hear the crackling of sunny side-up eggs sizzling on a pan. There in front of the stove stood an Illya, wearing a fuzzy shirt paired with beige colored trousers.

"Good morning, Peril."

The Russian clicks the stove off, flips the eggs onto a platter, and walks to the bar counter where he sets the plate along with some fresh coffee and baked bread. Napoleon merely gapes at the simple extravaganza on the counter. Illya watched his cowboy with satisfaction and circles around the counter to reach out and bring Napoleon into his gentle embrace, topping the movement off with a chaste kiss to the lips.

"Good morning, _dorogoy_." 

He nuzzles his face into the crook of Solo's neck and feels the vibrations as the other chuckles.

"You've been calling me _sobachonka_ and _dorogoy_ since last night. And you should know that I am quite aware of what you're calling me."

"I'm glad you're aware, then. Now let's eat breakfast. I had to run to the drug store for your bandages, and went to the mini mart to buy eggs."

The duo sat down and chatted happily amongst themselves. This was the life Illya wanted. Just a peaceful life with the love of your life and you having a beautiful breakfast at 10 AM. Just staring into those genuine love-starved eyes was enough for Illya to continue living. Living with his _dorogoy_. His beautiful _dorogoy_. His, and only his.

**Author's Note:**

> This shit took me like two days to write and finalize. Please praise me :'D
> 
>  _Anyhow_ , if you guys have any unique ideas for some oneshots, do comment below! Heads up, I'm a slow writer who likes perfecting shit like bloody Ramsey does, so I won't be posting that very often! Kudos, Bookmarks, and Comments are appreciated, accepted, loved, and kept in my heart! <3


End file.
